


Bleeding Love

by SmilinStar



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Fic, F/M, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 23:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10450026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: Or five times Sara gets hurt and Rip fusses and freaks the hell out, and the one time Sara returns the favour . . .





	

 

] I [

 

It starts with a papercut.

(Although, in all honesty, when asked about it later, he’ll say it started with a finger squeezing around a trigger, painting the ice crimson.)

She’s leafing through the stack of papers Nate had earlier dumped on the office desk, when her finger slices across a surprisingly sharp edge. The hiss of pain is instant.

“Damn it,” she mutters, lifting her finger on instinct to her mouth, and sucking on the tiny, inconvenient wound.

“Sara?”

The concern is palpable. She can hear it in his voice, can feel it in the air around her, feel it in the sudden burn of his eyes trained on her back.

She turns on the spot ready to wave it away, but finds Rip already edging around the centre table, abandoning his perusal of their most recent mission specs and standing less than a foot away. It’s not his closeness that bemuses her, but the expression on his face.

“I’m fine,” she’s quick to reassure, waving her finger around, “Just a stupid papercut.”

“Oh,” he says, and it’s almost as if he deflates with the relief, before quickly realising the extent of his overreaction and the tips of his ears are turning decidedly pink, “Oh, okay. Good . . .”

And because she can’t help herself, she raises a questioning brow in return.

“I mean, not good, _obviously_ , but . . . oh you know what I mean!”

She does. She’s only teasing; but the awkward hand at his nape as he turns away and the spreading blush on his cheeks, gives her pause.

“Wow. I hate to think how you’d react if I actually got sliced open by something a little less pathetic than wood pulp.”

An amused huff leaves his lips, but the moment doesn’t last long and she can see the play of thoughts across his face as he lowly retorts, “I dread to think.”

She doesn’t understand the way her insides twist with the words.

“Anyway,” he says to the table, pushing whatever darkness his mind has conjured up aside, “Pathetic it may be, but underestimate _wood pulp_ at your peril.”

She can’t help the surprised snort of laughter, which at least gets him to raise his head to look at her.

“Remembering being bludgeoned over the head with your very _original_ screenplay, are we?”

“I seem to remember doing a bit of the bludgeoning myself, actually.”

“Not the way Jax tells it.”

He looks a little disgruntled at that, “Anyway, what I meant was papercuts can be deceptively vicious.”

“Just say it, papercuts are a bitch.”

Of course, he says nothing of the sort, simply gives her a barest twitch of a smile and an, “Indeed.”

She shakes her head, mutters “You’re ridiculous,” with unexpected fondness before lifting her finger to her mouth again and sucking, because _damn._

_That hurts._

] II [

 

This time the time-quake sensors have Gideon plotting a course to 122 AD, Roman Britain, or more specifically to what would in present day be called Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, the ‘Geordie’ shores. The only earthly reason that Rip can fathom this time period and location being of any consequence is Hadrian’s Wall, or rather, the complete lack of it. Or any plans to build it.

What that means in terms of future repercussions, well, Nate attempts to gleefully fill them in as he prattles on about the significance of 73 miles of stone as the team trudges through the Northern countryside, and its muddy, treacherously uneven terrain. They all look as miserable as the grey, overcast skies, made all the worse by the frigidly cold air. Even Ray, and his eternally sunny disposition, is faltering.

“This is the worst mission ever,” Jax moans, “I don’t get what the big deal is!”

Rip, honestly, doesn’t either.

“Oh it’s not that bad, it could be worse!” Ray says, trying to muster up a little spirit.

Of course, predictably, just as soon as those words leave his mouth, the heavens open up and the downpour is brutal.

“Nice work, Haircut.”

“What? What did I say?”

Mick stares Ray down, before turning those eyes on him, “It’s your fault, English.”

“And how is this my fault?” he blusters, indignant to a fault, especially when he should know better than to rise to it.

“You brought the weather with you.”

“Oh yes! The old British weather joke. Well, we’re in _England_. I can hardly be credited for making it rain!”

Mick grunts his response, about the same time Professor Stein sneezes beside him.

“Okaaaay then, fellas,” Sara interrupts, stepping between them, “If we’re done with the bickering, how about we try and get ourselves out of the rain and find some shelter before we all catch the Black Death.”

“Actually,” Nate says, “That’s not for another twelve hundred years.”

To which both he and Sara turn to pin him with the same look - perfectly surmised with the one word: ‘ _Really_?’

Nate shrugs, “What?”

Amaya speaks up, “Shelter in theory would be good, but we haven’t seen any civilisation for miles.”

With a leaden gut, Rip realises she’s right. They haven’t.

He looks around him, north, east, south and west and he sees Sara doing the same. He spots it at about the same time she does.

The steep incline of a hill, the very top of which he’s sure hangs over the winding river. It’s the perfect vantage point to help give them a sense of direction in this torrential rain, and with any luck, point them towards a building, preferably one with four walls and a sturdy roof. Of course, in the current conditions, the slope of the hill looks far too dangerous to even attempt, and worse, it’s the thought of the drop on the other side that has him balking.

And yet, he opens his mouth, and says, “I’ll go.”

At about the exact time their Captain also opens hers, and says the same.

The argument is on the tip of his tongue, but she plays her trump card. Again.

“I’m Captain, _I’ll go_ ,” she repeats.

“Sara-”

She raises her brow and all he can muster up with a heavy sigh is: “Be careful.”

She nods and leads the way, the rest of the team edging as high as they dare.

Tension knots through him, anxiety humming under his skin as he clenches his fists, knuckles turning white. He can hear his heartbeat thrumming in his ears despite the rain battering down and soaking them through.

She slips several times, the soil nothing but slick mud under her feet, rocks crumbling, and it’s all he can do from leaping forward and dragging her back. Because, honestly? What the hell was the point of this mission anyway?

But Sara Lance is nothing if not determined and she manages to make it to the top.

“There’s a small village,” she shouts into the void, “It’s not too far!”

She turns back and yells down towards them, “We can easily make it!” But, of course, it’s like those words appear to egg fate on, and what happens next seems to unfold in slow motion as her yell turns to a sudden shriek and he doesn’t even think about it as his legs lurch him forwards. Her name is ripped from his throat, and the rest of the team aren’t far behind.

In hindsight, he’ll never remember how he got there, clawing his way up, hands grasping at grass and moss and dirt, until finally he’s clutching at skin and pulling with everything he has. Another set of arms join him, and another, and he can’t be sure whose they are because all he sees are her wide terrified eyes. With an almighty heave they get her back over the edge and the backward momentum has them tumbling down the hill.

He lays there in the aftermath, flat on his back, spread-eagled, taking deep breaths in and out.

Turning his head to the side, he finds her there on the ground, arm stretched towards him, breathing in and out in time with him. She turns to look back at him, hair matted to her face, streaks of dirt on her cheek, eyes a vivid blue, _alive_ , and then she laughs.

And really he should be alarmed, but somehow it seems fitting and he hasn’t laughed in so long, and so he joins her; the rest of the team staring around them as if the world’s gone mad. And maybe it has.

The laughter, though, doesn’t last long. It soon turns to hacking coughs and pained cries.

When they manage to get themselves back to the Waverider, a long while later, Gideon has her work cut out for her.

Between the eight of them, they share a broken ankle, sprained wrists, a dislocated shoulder, a concussion, and nasty colds all around.

All in all, they survive.

Just about.

 

] III [

 

It takes some cajoling and a little manipulation to get him here.

Reminds her of the time he sent her to train with Kendra. He’d recognised then that she’d needed someone to help her work through her bloodlust, and though he’d ordered her in the guise of helping Kendra get her warrior side under control, she knows better. She knows _him_.

She knows Rip Hunter better than most, and it’s not something she likes to think too much about.

And so of course she notices over time.

How easily he takes a punch. How little he fights back. How willing he is to place his own life on the sacrificial altar.

It’s not heroic. It’s something else. Something else that leaves her feeling hollow.

And so when she broaches the subject, he scoffs.

“It’s not my fault if people keep punching me!”

To her responding stare: “Okay, so maybe I deserved it a few times.”

“That why you can’t dodge an incoming fist worth a damn? You think you deserve every single one of those punches?”

“Of course not,” he says, but then he’s looking at the display screen and quite blatantly avoiding her gaze.

“That’s it. You, me, basic combat training, tomorrow morning.”

His head jerks up at that. “Basic!” he splutters, “I’ve been handling myself just fine all these years. I’ll have you know that I’ve had extensive training and field . . . what? Why are you smiling like that?”

Truth is, she’s smiling because it’s nice to see a little fire spark to life in his eyes now and again. Even if it is in outrage. It doesn’t happen nearly enough.

She doesn’t tell him that though, instead just carries on smiling benignly as she says, “Tomorrow morning. 0800 hours. Captain’s orders.”

She leaves the bridge without another glance his way, but she feels his eyes all the same.

The eyes that look back at her this morning don’t hold the same intensity. They’re a little red and weary around the edges as he stands there in his t-shirt and sweats looking alarmingly frail and tired.

“I’m surprised you showed up,” she says.

“As am I, _Captain_ Lance.”

 _Ah_ , she thinks, _seems those orders were still smarting_.

“Okay, show me what you got.”

He raises a brow, silently challenging her.

She shrugs her shoulders, “Punch me.”

“I am not going to punch y- ow!”

He stumbles back, and honestly, she didn’t even hit him that hard.

He sends her a dark look as he rubs at his jaw, “Was that really necessary- Sara!”

He hits the wall of the cargo bay when her foot connects with his stomach, and he’s not even fighting back, which only riles her up more.

“Start,” she bodily shoves into him, “fighting,” presses an arm across his neck as she leans in close, “back!”

His eyes snap to hers, and they are the brightest green she’s seen them. She senses the moment something fundamental changes in him, his focus all on her and it’s an infinitesimally small second, but for the briefest of moments his eyes flicker down, trail the slope of her nose, landing on her lips, before meeting her gaze once more.

“Fine,” he says, rolling his shoulders back, “Remember you asked for it, Captain!”

It sends a thrill through her as she grins.

She pushes off of him, and cocks her head to the side, “Bring it.”

It’s a whirl of flying limbs after that. She easily dances past most of his attacks, but he lands a surprising few and they don’t half hurt. The most gratifying thing though is the fact he deflects more of her punches than she’d expected, and though his form isn’t perfect, he’s not abjectly terrible. Not as good as her, but few are.

It takes her completely by surprise then when he manages to get her feet out from under her seemingly out of nowhere. She falls back on the mats she’d laid out, but she doesn’t anticipate where she is fast enough and lands on the edge of it, her head knocking hard against the metal flooring of the Waverider.

The pain explodes behind her eyes as she squeezes them tight, ears ringing so loud, it’s deafening.

“Sara! Oh god, Sara!” his hands are clutching at her cheeks, tangling through her hair as he cradles her head, “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean . . . damn it. Sara! Can you hear me? Sara!”

She can hear him fine as his voice grows louder and alarmingly, and uncharacteristically, more hysterical.

“Stop yelling,” she finally manages to groan, “I’m fine.”

He lets out an audible sigh of relief, but she can sense the overbearing self-recrimination already, and damn it. This was not the point of this whole exercise.

And so she opens her eyes, finds Rip Hunter’s face looming scant inches from hers and yep. There it is. The self-loathing and blame and worry, and _nope._ Not on her watch.

With some effort and determination, ignoring the throbbing pain at the back of her skull, she turns the tables on him and in a blink has him flipped flat on his back with her straddling his waist.

The poor man looks confused as she grins down at him.

“Takes a lot more than that to knock me out.”

Understanding dawns and rather than irritation, admiration seems to darken his eyes and all of a sudden she becomes acutely aware of their current positions. And what’s surprising is there isn’t even a trace of embarrassment colouring his face.

“You fight dirty, Captain.”

A familiar spark shoots down her spine, buzzing under her skin. It’s familiar but new at the same time, and completely unexpected.

She presses down, leaning forward, because she can’t quite resist.

A hairbreadth away from his face, she says, “You should try it some time.”

This time he does blush, as she pats his cheek, before climbing off.

She leaves him there on the mats, and walks off in search of some ice.

And a shower.

A cold one.

 

] IV [

 

A cosmic joke.

That’s what he decides this whole thing is.

Hunched up in the corner of his own damn brig and the sense of déjà vu is nauseating. The difference being the first time could be argued to be a figment of his imagination, a prison in his mind, but real all the same. But this? This is a whole new level of real.

Bloody Time Pirates.

Unfortunately for them, they aren’t the stupid, impulsive type that storm a Time Ship with a half-baked plan. They’d somehow managed to override Gideon’s base operations and had gained full command of the Waverider. The only bright side was the fact Sara had sent half the team on a reconnaissance mission, and he sure hoped Ray, Nate, Mick and Amaya would be able to put their heads together to come up with a decent plan to avoid capture and laser blasts to their chests, and maybe even help get them out of their current predicament.

He draws some comfort from the fact that Professor Stein, Jax and Sara had thus far managed to elude their captors. Or so he hopes. The other possibility? Well, he can’t bear to imagine.

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there feeling entirely useless and miserable about it, when the metal doors to the brig whoosh open.

He spots the mess of blonde hair easily – bright like a beacon in the darkness and dim lighting – as one of the goons shoves her forward into the room.

His heart sinks.

The glass door slides open and with a kick to her back, sends her sprawling onto the floor.

“Hey!” he yells, surging forwards. For his efforts, he gets a punch to the mouth, which he honestly, truly had tried to avoid this time. He stumbles back to sneering laughter and a snide comment about pansy-ass women having no place being captains.

Righteous indignation has to wait as Sara lets out a worrying groan and they’re left alone with the time pirate’s hideous chuckles still reverberating around them.

He drops to his knees beside her, the taste of blood still in his mouth, but easily forgettable when he gets a good look at his captain.

She’s been beaten black and blue, and the dawning horror is that she must not have put up a fight, because no one could land so many blows unless Sara Lance wanted them to.

“What did you do?” he mutters, eyes roving over her face.

She grimaces, the effort of speaking obviously causing her pain, as she says, “Needed a distraction.”

“Yes, well, looks like your distraction failed.”

She tries to lift herself up to a sitting position but cries out in pain, and he can’t help the steady rise of panic building, “Hey, slowly. Slowly.” He tries his best to get her up, but every single breath seems to grate and he thinks she must have a broken rib or two. Finally, he manages to get her leaning up against the wall, but the effort is too much and she slumps into his side.

There’s a subtle shake of her head against his shoulder, and he looks down to find her resting there against him with her eyes closed, “Didn’t fail,” she mutters, “I was the distraction.”

“And how is the captain getting caught and beaten to an inch of her life meant to be a distraction?” The words come out a little harsh, and he doesn’t mean them to be but it’s just the fear and concern passing judgement.

“Aw are you worrying about me Rip?” she asks, and it shouldn’t surprise him how quickly she sees straight through it.

He lets out a slow breath, honesty falling from his lips softly, “I always worry about you, Sara.”

The admission sits there.

He waits for it. The teasing deflection or for her to ignore it altogether. And he’s not sure which one he’d prefer.

But as always, she surprises him.

Her hand finds his, fingers weaving together as she squeezes, “I’m okay.”

He huffs, a disbelieving puff of air leaving his lips and ruffling the top of her hair, “You and I have very different definitions of okay.”

“Had to be done. Sometimes captains need to make the sacrifices. Trust me Space Ranger and Kevin McCallister have this covered.”

He frowns, processing. The reference lost on him, but he decides to let that slide and focus on the other part of her sentence.

“Sacrifices, huh? Oh good. So I suppose now you understand.”

“Understand what?”

 _Me._ Except he can’t voice it. Because no one really ever has.

Except.

She shifts her head, tilts back and her eyes are open, staring back at him.

He swallows.

“You?” she asks.

And he can’t answer her, mouth suddenly dry.

“Nah,” she says through the pain, “Don’t think I’ll ever understand you.”

“Liar,” he whispers.

And the smile he gets is beautiful - swollen, bleeding lip and all. His stomach swoops and it’s a feeling he’s been getting more and more over the last few months, and he really doesn’t know what to do with it. Certainly, doesn’t want it. Doesn’t need it.

 _Now who’s the liar?_ A mocking voice in his head pipes up.

Because whatever this is, it’s not real. It can’t be.

But she’s not looking away, and the smile softens and his pulse is hammering away under his skin as she edges closer and then . . .

“Sorry to interrupt your moment, Captains.”

There’s a buzz of electricity sparking its way around them, and then they’re blinking hard at the bright lights that suddenly come on overhead.

“But I’ve been informed to tell you that Professor Stein and Mr Jackson have successfully managed to booby trap the Waverider and have the Time Pirates currently cornered in an air lock.”

“That was fast,” Sara mutters.

“Gideon?” Rip asks getting to his feet, somehow incredulous, but he really should have learnt by now.

“Yes, Captain Hunter, who else would it be?”

Sara snorts, “Glad to have you back, Gideon.”

“Thank you Captain Lance. I’ve prepared the med bay for you.”

“Thank you, but we need to make a detour first.”

Rip looks down at her, ready to argue, but she’s raising her brow, inviting an argument he knows he’ll lose.

Okay, so maybe he’d like to see these pirates get their comeuppance too.

“Help me up?” she asks.

He shakes his head, “We’re not really going to throw them out of an air lock, are we?”

She smirks.

“Sara?”

“Have a little faith, Rip.”

He sighs. He does. Maybe a little too much.

She lifts up her hand.

He doesn’t hesitate.

 

] V [

 

She’s failed.

Again.

And there’s no going back now.

Arrows. A bullet. Makes sense it’s a sword.

It’s clean she supposes. Quick.

“I’m sorry, Laurel,” she whispers into the night, but there’s no one there to hear her and she’s thankful for small mercies.

But, of course, life’s never been very fair and she’s not sure why it would listen to her pleas now.

“Sara! SARA!”

Her eyes squeeze tight. His sheer terror slicing through her as if Darhk’s blade hadn’t done enough damage.

The footsteps as he runs towards her sounds far away. She doesn’t really hear him collapse on the ground beside her, hands running over her, a litany of “Oh please, Sara, no,” falling in desperation from his lips.

He presses against her stomach, trying in vain to stem the bleeding. She groans at the pressure, her eyelids fluttering.

“Sara? Sara! Stay with me. Not again. Not again.”

And she’s not really in any state to process what he means, but her heart breaks anyway.

“Rip? Rip! Oh my god, SARA!”

She barely recognises the voice as Jax’s.

There’s another set of hands pressing against her now.

“We have to go, man! We have to get her back on the Waverider! Rip!”

His hands leave her, only to rest against her cheek, smearing her own blood on her skin as he cradles her head.

It’s a struggle, but she manages to open her eyes. He’s resting his forehead on hers and she can’t focus on anything but the feel of his fingers and the warmth of his breath on her skin. His eyes are screwed shut in pain as if he’s the one who’s been stabbed and she can’t make sense of it. He pulls away then, replacing his head against hers with a press of his lips and then he’s stepping away from her completely.

The shift in his tone is jarring as he orders, “Take her back to the Waverider. Now.”

“Where are you going?” A gruff voice asks. Mick, it’s Mick.

He doesn’t answer him.

“Rip, come on man. No! Rip!”

But Jax’s words aren’t heeded and she’s not sure what that means.

Not that it matters.

The last thing she thinks of is a crooked smile, and an outstretched hand, before Darkness claims hers.

 _Miss Lance, join me for a drink,_ it says.

 

] + [

 

A steady beep.

Getting louder, faster, and _what is that?_

“Captain? Sara?”

“What’s going on, Grey? Is she waking up?”

“Is she alright? Oh please tell me she’s okay!”

“I don’t know, Ray! Gideon?”

“Captain Lance, I believe, is regaining consciousness.”

“Oh look at that, Blondie pulled through. No surprises. Third, fourth? Time’s a charm.”

“Ugh,” is all she manages as she tries to unglue her eyes. Her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she’s sure she tries to say something along the lines of “Everyone, shut up. Please.” Because everything, _everything_ , hurts.

When she finally does open her eyes, it’s to multiple faces staring at her and it’s a little alarming to be at the centre of that much attention, and she kind of just wants to slip back off to sleep. But then it registers: six faces. Six.

“Where’s Rip?” she croaks out.

The haze clears, and everything becomes sharper in focus and the expressions looking back at her makes her heart pound and the damn machine betrays her with its furious beep-beep-beeping.

“Where’s Rip?” she asks again, cold dread settling in her stomach.

“He’s fine,” Amaya is quick to reassure her.

“Eh,” Nate cocks his head, “I wouldn’t say _fine_ exactly.”

She bolts upright, and wow, that maybe wasn’t her best idea as her head swims with the sudden movement.

“Captain Lance, I really must insist you lay back down. You suffered a near-fatal injury and-”

“I’m fine, Professor,” she says, patting him on the arm as she blinks away the black dots in her vision, and turns to face the rest of the team, “Someone want to tell me what happened?”

The wandering eyes, the exchanging of looks from face to face, doesn’t help with the anxiety.

“What? What happened?”

Ray clears his throat, steps forward, “Uh. Rip, Rip kind of, uh-”

“Went apeshit crazy,” Mick finishes for him, to which he gets disapproving looks from the rest of the team, not that she cares.

“What do you mean, crazy?”

“He went after Darhk,” Jax sighs.

She thinks for a second that she didn’t hear him right. “What?” she says again, “Where is he?”

Her heart wants to burst and all she can think is _don’t say it, don’t say it._

“Woah Sara,” Jax says reaching forward and grabbing hold of her arms, “Relax, he’s fine. Like Amaya said. A little beat up, gone a little nuts worrying about you, but we got him back in time. I told you we would, remember?”

And she does, remember. A prophecy, he’d said.

“Where is he?” she asks one last time.

“He is in his quarters, Captain Lance, but I would strongly advise against-”

“Thank you, Gideon,” she cuts her off, as she pulls at the wires on her arms despite the team’s protests.

“Let her go,” is the last thing she hears Amaya say as she walks out of the med bay.

“Do you think those knuckleheads will finally get it together?” Mick asks after.

“God, I hope so,” answers Jax.

“Me too,” Martin says.

A murmur of agreement follows.

It’s been long enough, after all.

 

\-----

 

She doesn’t even bother knocking. Doesn’t need to. Has Gideon on her side and she helpfully just slides his doors open.

The walk to his room was time enough to build on her fury, an angry rant there ready to unleash on the tip of her tongue. Yet again, he’d been so quick to offer his life up on a platter and hadn’t even thought about it twice.

And for what?

For _her_?

It makes her angry. So angry.

But then she’s stepping into his room, and the words are forgotten. She moves around the shelving to the bed pushed up against the corner, and finds him sitting there on the edge, head in hands. It always surprises her that the man even has a bed. That he even sleeps. Because those eyes of his look like they’ve lived far too long for sleep to provide any sort of refuge. Not anymore.

“Missed you at my welcome-back-to-life party,” she says instead.

He doesn’t even look up, just stares at his hands.

She takes a step forward, “So, no ‘I’m glad you’re okay’, or a ‘how are you feeling?’”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he parrots back flatly.

She takes another step, “Rip? What happened?”

He stands up then, starts pacing and still won’t look at her.

“Rip?”

“I’m sorry, alright? I failed,” he whirls on her, “I failed. _Again_.”

“You mean, by not killing Damien Darhk? That’s not your fight.”

“Oh, but it is, Sara.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

He looks away as he says it, as if he’s said too much. And she’s fed up of it. Because the problem is, he never says _enough._

He’s always skirted the edge of something, too afraid to cross that line.

“Again,” she says, remembering something, a hazy memory mired in blood and pain, “What did you mean by again?”

“Really Sara? You want the dictionary definition of the word ‘again’?”

She reins in her annoyance as he snaps at her, takes a calming breath before answering. “No, when you found me,” she starts, noticing the way he flinches at the words, “You kept saying, over and over, ‘not again.’”

He looks visibly struck.

“What did you mean by that?”

“I meant . . . I just meant,” he stops, takes a deep breath and faces her, “I have lost a lot that is dear to me in this lifetime, and I didn’t think I had the strength or reserve left in me to carry on if I lost . . . another.”

She says nothing for a moment, his words, their meaning, sinking in.

“So, you going after Darhk,” she says carefully, “That was you just, _what_? _Giving up_?”

He looks back at her alarmed, “No. Sara, no. That was me running off half-cocked in a fit of rage and anger. Monumentally stupid, I see that now.”

“Glad we agree on something.”

He presses his lips into an almost smile, before it disappears and he says far too seriously, “We will get Darhk, I promise you that.”

“I know.”

She also knows he’s skirting around _it_ again, and so takes the last few steps towards him and watches as he stills at her approach. “But first,” she says, “Looks like we need to get you back in the training room.” And if she hadn’t made herself clear enough, she reaches up and brushes her thumb across the yellowing bruise on his cheekbone, “I thought I taught you how to block a punch?”

“It’s really not that bad.”

“Your face is a mess, Mr Hunter.”

“Why thank you, Miss Lance.”

Now or never, she thinks as she then says; “You know I could kiss them better?”

His eyes widen, and the blush starts creeping up his neck as it finally computes, “That really won’t be necessary.”

“Are you sure? I made quite the nurse in 1958.”

She takes that last step, face mere centimetres from his as she stares up at him.

“I’m sure you did,” he breathes out.

They hover in that moment, her eyes dropping to his mouth, lingering there before flicking back up his face to find him watching her.

She senses the exact moment it all changes, the moment he makes the decision.

“You know my lips aren’t bruised,” he simply says.

Her answering grin is wide and delighted as she presses her mouth to his and finally kisses him.

“Not yet they aren’t.”

He laughs, and she’s never heard anything better.

 

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Ah I know, I know. Too cheesy? Too fluffy? I don’t know. I went back and forth on them actually kissing but it just felt right, so there you go. Hope you didn’t hate it.


End file.
